“You are no more my mama than a stranger on the street. Bye, now. I won’t be seeing you again.” I pulled Deanna along the path to the car, my heart racing toward a conclusion of how poorly or how well I’d handled our visit. I had no idea. I only knew I had to get away from Jocelyn.

I turned to look at Deanna before starting the car. She smiled Violet’s smile at me and reached out with a hug. “You okay?”

I sat with my eyes closed for a few seconds. “Yes, I’m fine. And you’re right. I’m glad I came to meet with her, because now I can move on without looking back all the time,” I paused, “and I think I can start to forgive her. She’s too pitiful for anything else.”

“You did good, honey,” Deanna patted my arm and fastened her seat belt. “I’m proud of you for saying what you needed to say. I’m sorry you had to hear all she said in return.”

“It was pretty much what I’d expected,” I replied. “And though this was far from my favorite thirty minutes ever, thank you for arranging it. I needed to face her.”

Deanna nodded and put a hand on my cheek. “We passed a Dairy Queen on the way here. I could use some ice cream. Ice cream makes everything better.”

“Did I tell you that Violet scooped ice cream in Florida when she was pregnant with you? She said she ate up more in profits than she sold.”

“I guess that explains that,” Deanna said. “I could happily live on it. Why couldn’t she have consumed salads for nine months?”

Late that night I found my email from Jennifer Meyer. She thanked me for my submission and offered to reevaluate my manuscript if I augmented it, but it was at least twenty thousand words too short and “not suitable for the current market.” She said I showed promise as a writer and should continue to develop my skills. I was welcome to contact her with any submissions in the future, including, she reiterated, a longer version of Violet’s story.

I tried to concentrate on something else. I was feeling one disappointment away from Audrey Ledbetter-level bitterness.

I thought about how Rick helped me with my struggle to write Violet’s book for nearly a year. How he’d gone to all the trouble to check on my mother’s condition before even thinking of allowing her into my life. The way his arms felt around me, his sandalwood cologne, the sound of his laugh, the spot at the base of his head where his hair was baby soft. I loved the little things he did to show me he cared; the flowers on my windshield and the Starbucks he’d occasionally bring during my shift.